Business
by kumulonimbus
Summary: A young Jesse McCree meets the infamous legendary outlaw known as Erron Black: "The man was special, they would say, trying to justify their cowardice. Survival instinct, they would name it." Fate will reunite them again, many years later: right after the events of Train Hopper.
1. Introduction: Legend

" _I am who I am and I have the need to be."_

― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

* * *

 **Business.**

Introduction: Legend

* * *

[Montana, Earthrealm - 2053]

 _..._

He sat by the desk as his relentless eyes kept on staring at the clock ticking away its ancient tune. Time was the most capricious of substances, stretching itself inside one's mind as if refusing to venture into the glimmering windows of the future. The kid tapped his fingers on the wooden surface of the old, battered desk, all crates and boxes carefully displayed in the room, the inventory already checked and nearly learnt by heart by his struggling impulses.

He was barely fourteen yet he knew they only considered him a mere pet, a disposable pawn – someone they wouldn't miss in case things were to go south. Yet he knew better; the candor showing inside the elders' eyes was subtly speaking about a potential that could certainly be unleashed, in time. He was a diamond in the rough, he knew, his pride causing him to cock his head slightly to his right, a reassuring grin curling up his upper lip.

Placing his hat on top of one of the crates, the young Jesse McCree wandered the room with the impatience of someone who knows that is entirely alone, probably about to face the most challenging moment of his incipient life: he had been assigned for a task no other member of the infamous Deadlock gang was willing to accept. They had closed a deal, the transaction supposed the usual exchange of weaponry for money – weapons they'd deliver, and money they would gladly collect in return for their deadly services.

Yet no one wanted to be there to welcome the _legend_ they were selling to this time. The man had a bad reputation, they all said. Some rather menacing lines had even been tossed around, the same lines they kept repeating over and over, trying to scare him off. Yet the boy took a deep breath and raised his hand – he would go, meet the stranger. Even for such dangerous criminals as the members of the Deadlock gang it seemed someone was scary enough to make them all run for cover. Not him, though.

Maybe it was because he was young and reckless. His impulses and pulsations taking control of his thoughts. Maybe he had something to prove, something to show.

Maybe he was better than the rest.

The usual background check had been skipped this time – the man in question was a legend, there was no need to confirm that he was who he claimed to be. Yet one thing was to face him briefly, acknowledging his requests and arranging the payment, and another completely different thing was to be the one in charge of giving him the weapons he had purchased and extending one's arm to accept his money.

Many men had been there.

Only a few had returned.

The man was _special_ , they would say, trying to justify their cowardice. _Survival instinct_ , they would name it.

He had heard many things about this buyer: it was not the first time that he had chosen the Deadlock gang to associate his criminal needs with. Yet not many had lived to tell the story; the man had a temper. Some would even say that he was the incarnation of the devil itself, present and constant in the world generation after generation, corrupting everything and everyone standing in his way.

It would have been much easier to turn down his offer, the kid concluded bitterly as he counted the boxes one more time, but this man had always paid good money for their equipment, possibly better money than the rest of their clients could ever afford to trade. Liquidity was not a problem for this client, or so it seemed. Plus he had a reputation: not every day you get the chance to see such a legendary outlaw walking right through your door and ask for your supplies.

Despite the mouthful of words that would be propelled from their mouths every time someone would bring up his name all that could be said about him were mere empty statements, no real information was known about this man, where he was from, where did he live, nothing. Many years ago, when the man had first approached their organization they decided to investigate him, to see if he was trustworthy: with nothing but a name they begin a fruitless search that ultimately left them with more doubts than answers.

Erron Black.

There had been an Erron Black once, they figured as they did their homework, tracking down records and even performing a genealogical research during their futile attempts to learn more from this strange new buyer. Some old soldier who had fought for the confederacy during the American Civil War was also named Erron Black. The name was peculiar indeed, yet it couldn't be more than a coincidence, a capricious irony embedded in the tricks and aces that time always has under its sleeve.

Maybe he was a descendant.

Maybe he was a long-lost anima that had successfully fooled the time-space continuum.

Maybe.

Jesse searched his pocket for a pack of smokes – he lit up the cigar, the puff of dense, grey smoke quickly enveloping his face, then decided to separate the items for this particular buyer and take them upstairs, to what used to be the main hall of that abandoned restaurant. Surely he didn't like the idea of facing this so-called legend in a secluded basement with little room for the boy to maneuver in case he needed to – the hall was an open space, there were still plenty of tables and chairs that he could use, the boy anticipated.

He unfolded the piece of paper that was resting on the desk and took all of the items that were written on that list: 50 handgun magazines, 12 boxes of low-caliber munitions, each box containing one hundred bullets, 30 grenades – though just the empty bodies, not the entire devices – and finally, 4 boxes of gunshot shells, each one containing 24 cartridges. Once he had carefully selected all the requested items he carried each box upstairs, his arms struggling to maintain the fragile balance not to let anything fall down to the ground. He placed the items on one of the tables of the restaurant and inspected the list yet another time, trying to make sure he had grabbed everything that the buyer was willing to pay for.

"Tell your boss I'm here, son. Quick, don't have time to waste." A baritone voice surprised him, making him turn around to meet the stranger walking inside the restaurant. "Door was unlocked," he simply said, his flamboyant arms wide opened, as if excusing himself.

"They sent _me_." The kid replied, hiding his nervousness under a false stance of bravery. The man standing right in front of him was indeed a walking illustration, probably torn out from the pages of a history book. Yet there was something peculiar about him, this classic cowboy – as Jesse recognized immediately – seemed to had properly adapted himself to the coming and goings of time. "What's with the mask?" The fourteen-year-old asked, though involuntarily – that figure was indeed mesmerizing for his senses yet the leather mask that was covering the lower half of his face seemed rather odd according to the established cannons for western folklore.

"What's with the spurs?" The buyer retorted in a matter of seconds, his disdainful cobalt eyes inspecting the kid as if trying to deconstruct him with his irises. A half grin was molding the leather, contorting it rather mockingly. "Are those my boxes?" He demanded immediately.

The boy nodded, as he offered the man the list he had been carrying.

"I know what I ordered." Black replied, bluntly, causing the kid to put the piece of paper back in his pocket.

The legendary outlaw took a few steps back then, nearly retreating to the entrance of the restaurant. Waiting by the door he grabbed a large black bag and threw it on the table. The kid got the message quickly, he opened the bag almost instinctively: his surprised eyes encountered more money than he could have possibly imagined.

"Count 'em." The mercenary commanded, willing to close the deal as soon as possible. The kid sat back down and obeyed, carefully going through each bundle. As the boy busied himself with the money, the mercenary took each of the boxes he had ordered and shook them slightly, the sounds carried out by each slight movement inside the containers being perfectly inspected by the inventory he was running inside his head.

After a while Jesse smiled, satisfied. "This is it," the boy said, "pleasure doing business with you."

But Black wasn't as amused as the kid. The cowboy mercenary took one of the boxes of gunshot shells and placed it on the table. "This one has only 22 cartridges." He demanded, the cold stare in his eyes was shredding the boy to pieces.

"There's no way you can tell how many cartridges are in that box just by shaking the damn thing."

"Why don't you count 'em yourself?" Black suggested then, as he pushed the box forward for the kid to reach for it. He produced one of his pistols and aimed for the boy's head, visibly annoyed by his impertinence. Jesse narrowed his eyes and slowly opened the box: two empty spaces were visibly showing, there was no need to count the items, the man was right.

"I can fix this." He said, afraid yet determined to do the right thing. The boy quickly made his way to the basement and took two cartridges from another box then went back upstairs, opening his palm for the mercenary to take them.

"Pleasure doing business with you, son." Black said, placing each box inside the bag in which the money had traveled.

The kid stood still, absorbed and bewildered by the man's obvious experience, the million questions that were running wildly through his mind could be clearly seen reflected all over his face.

"What can I say?" Black began, rather self-indulgently, raising an eyebrow, " _I'm older than I look_."

The revelation was jaw-dropping for the young cowboy, now fully encompassed by the amazing being about to leave the restaurant. It couldn't be, it simply could not be possible.

"Two more things, kid," Black said, his hand already reaching for the doorknob. "Get yourself a good, decent poncho, cowboy – and in case you are really willing to lead this kind of life, forgive your enemies every once in a while."

"Why?" The kid asked, stupor pinning him down to the ground, making it impossible for him to move.

"It messes up their heads."

After that he was gone. The kid reached for the harmonica he'd always carry in his back pocket, the very last souvenir from his dearly missed father, and allowed his lips to kill the distance separating them from the artifact. It would take several years for the boy and the stranger to cross paths again yet the doubt would persist, it would only grow stronger with time. Yet it could not be, he knew this for a fact, it could not be; it was impossible.

Wasn't it?


	2. Knock Knock

A/N: I know, I know… this was meant to be a one-shot… But since people wanted more, I decided to write some more. This story is set right after the events of Train Hopper and – hopefully – will be completed in no more than five chapters. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 2

Knock Knock.

* * *

[Houston, Earthrealm. Many years later.]

...

As the woman kept on checking on him, and his metallic arm, she insisted in knowing exactly what had happened on that hypertrain. Not that the story was exceedingly difficult or intricate to be easily understood – she just needed to comprehend that those words she had just heard were the exact phonemes that had propelled from his mouth.

She stared intently at him, blue eyes fixed on his rather imperturbable expression; mouth agape. Angela cocked her head a little, the signs of her internal struggle finally beginning to show.

"Do you need me to tell you again; slower this time, maybe?" McCree offered in what seemed to be the only tone his words were going to get tainted with: sarcasm, and a subtle note of disbelief.

The doctor shook her head in silence, a pensive demeanor taking over her features. Whatever was going through her mind it was visibly blocking her linguistic competences. She opened her mouth and began moving her hands around; fingers mid-air – then she quickly went back to his fingers; her own digits curling and uncurling his.

"Ange, it's not that hard to understand, really…"

She eyed him speculatively, silence still polluting all those speeches she was not meant to say, then sat on the petite wooden coffee table in the middle of her living room.

The gunslinger took a deep breath – Houston, for the first time, was not as cozy and welcoming as he remembered. "Alright," he said as he exhaled through his mouth, "one more time, okay?"

The doctor covered her face with her own hands minutely to prevent the obnoxious sounds of her exasperation to reach him – she was no stranger to the fact that she was the only one left for Jesse to hold on to now that he had embraced the life of a vigilante. Trying her best not to scare him away, the palms of her hands abandoned her face, revealing a calmer expression. She nodded, still silently, as she cupped her own chin with one of her hands like an avid child eager to listen to their favorite story.

"I was on my way here. Talon agents appeared out of nowhere." Jesse began; using short sentences for the woman to follow his explanations in a rather simple way. "There was an artifact… aboard the hypertrain; they were trying to get their hands on it. I fought the agents, grabbed the _thing_ , kicked it off the train and came here… to you." He had punctiliously paused right after every clause of his simplified version of the story; the cadence in his elocution was clearly mocking her perplexity.

"I get the idea of what happened," the woman finally said, "what I don't understand is the ' _I kicked it off the train'_ bit."

McCree shrugged, a part of his brain struggling as well, finding it hard to believe that such a smart woman like Angela would be having a hard time trying to decipher his words.

"You know better than to just 'kick it off the train,' Jesse" – she reproached, as she stood up only to sit down again, right next to the man on the comfortable burgundy couch. "You were once a trained soldier…" she began, yet his serious expression cut her off before she could continue.

"I was never a _soldier_."

Even if she knew there was certainty in his words, a part of her still missed that old version of him that still played by the rules. She had become his only rule nowadays, preventing his sanity from simply flying out the window – she had become his breather; the only thread still linking him to the very concept of an organized sense of civilization.

The world had seen all his colors: from bad guy to good guy to every possibility in-between – only his shades and shadows had now become less vivid and more lackluster. Each day spent in the indomitable secrecy of unlawfulness had weathered the little crumbs still left of that gentle boy she had once loved so deeply.

Now he would only come visit her when things were simply too much for him to handle; when the melancholic visions of a better past would come haunt him during the nights. And she would welcome him then, always happy to know he had somehow survived another day on his own. She would patch him up, like now, if necessary. She would plead him to reconsider his life choices; to turn his back on the ungrateful fate of a mercenary.

They would argue, then. Their contrasting meanings behind the term 'justice' would become the barrier separating what had once been an indivisible thing.

Both of them would find solace in silence, then. Right before their words could acquire the tenacity to hurt like bullets for they both were certain there was no such thing as healing from such insufferable wounds. Then they would resume their conversation; much lighter now, much shallower than before. They would talk about everything without actually talking about anything at all.

And they would smile.

Laugh, even.

Then he would leave and she would wait for him to come back next month. She would wait for a letter that would never come, a phone call that would never occur, a sign… trapped inside the rollercoaster of her own emotions she would lose hope during the nights only to wake up to a renewed faith every morning. A faith telling her that he _would_ be back; that no matter when, how or why, he _would_ be back.

Yet deep down, right now, both the doctor and the gunslinger were well aware of the fact that this new-found silence had nothing to do with the usual bitterness that would encompass their meetings – she had said the only word that was powerful enough to disarm him: she had said 'soldier.'

"I know."

Such simple wording still carried inside such a complex cobweb of implications.

 _Knock-knock._

There had been a soldier in their lives, once – Jack Morrison; Overwatch's former Strike-Commander. His ghost was still persistent, however, as if only interested in reminding Jesse of how different they were – so different that even Angela herself had ultimately chosen Morrison over the boy that had been by her side from the very beginning. After Jack went missing, a part of Angela went missing as well. It was evident; she still missed him.

She still wanted a soldier.

She still wanted _her_ soldier.

 _Knock-knock._

"Expecting someone?" McCree asked, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

The doctor shook her head in silence.

The gunslinger got a hold of his peacemaker and walked silently towards the door – he leaned his back against it as he motioned his free hand to indicate Angela it was time for her to hide. Only when the doctor's silhouette disappeared from his worried sight the man allowed his body to turn around; free hand resting on the doorknob, index finger already caressing the cold trigger, peacemaker ready to fire.

Jesse McCree began to open the door then, slowly, yet steel met steel the second the little space separating the inside of Mercy's house from the outside allowed both weapons to become acquainted with each other. McCree took a step back, even if involuntarily, his body providing the assailant with a clear path to come in and face the former Overwatch agent. Two pairs of cowboy boots walked in tandem then, as Jesse ventured his body farther into the living room, followed closely by the owner of the gun pressed hard against his forehead.

Perplexed, McCree lowered his peacemaker the second he stared into those cold, cobalt eyes. That same petulant grin he had seen in his youth; the same hat – the same face.

"This can't be possible…" he pondered out loud as he moved nearer the couch, leaning his arms on it.

Erron Black's half smile was all the answer McCree would need; the gesture was familiar. The bicentennial mal approached him; his gun no longer menacing yet still resting warmly between his hands:

"So it _was_ you…" he began, as his eyes darted around to explore McCree's expression of complete disbelief. "When I saw you on that hypertrain… well, boy – I had my suspicions; but now that you're right in front of me there's not a goddamed trace of doubt left in me: it _is_ you; Deadlock Gang's favorite brat." He walked around Jesse, absorbing his surroundings, until the cowboy mercenary decided to sit on the couch, stretching out his legs until his dirty boots were touching the surface of Angela's coffee table. "You made it, then, I'm glad. I gotta tell you, boy – back then you just seemed so… so _green_ , you were trembling like a leaf," he said as he looked over his shoulder, visibly fascinated. "But look at you now; boy: all grown up and serious - nice house by the way."

Jesse exhaled loudly as his mechanical hand scratched his forehead.

"You haven't aged a single day."

Black rested his hands on his lap as he shrugged, unpreoccupied. Then he searched his pockets for his pack of cigarettes – he was about to light one up; the cigar already pressed tight between his lips, when an unexpected female voice caught his attention:

"No smoking inside," Angela ordered as she walked towards the men – "if I can keep _him_ from smoking inside my house, I sure as hell can keep _you_ from smoking too."

Black cocked his head, hands up in the air as a sign of fake surrender, then he placed the cigarette back inside the little red cardboard box and stood up, forgetting all about Jesse and walking towards the doctor.

"Who are you and what do you want?" Angela asked as Black's menacing shadow began to tower over her.

"I'm not here to socialize, sweetheart. Go back to the kitchen."

Cold cobalt eyes examined her as she frowned yet the woman stayed right where she was; feet seemingly pinned to the ground. Black offered her a half smile and a loud sigh as he walked past her. He went back to the couch but this time, he grabbed Jesse by one of his wrists and forced him to sit down beside him – the feeling was unfamiliar; it was colder than expected. Black lowered his head and took a good look at Jesse's arm – his prosthetic arm, then his eyes silently confronted the former Overwatch agent; the soundless duel was brief yet intense.

Before speaking, Black produced his brown leather face-mask from one of his back pockets – inside the mask was a little circular container. Black rested the container on the table as McCree watched him in silence. Without paying attention to Jesse's evident curiosity, Black carefully hid the lower part of his identity behind the noble material of his mask. The image was finally complete, that man sitting right beside him was the man from his memory only his eyes seemed colder now. Maybe it was the mask, Jesse considered, what made his eyes so menacing and turbulent.

"Who were those men on the train – and where can I find them?" The Outworld cowboy demanded as he returned his attention to the container he had placed on the table. He opened it for Jesse to see what was inside: it looked like some sort of black plasticene, dull and odorless.

"I ain't got all day, boy." Black teased as he impregnated the tip of his index finger with the substance only to spread it around his eyes and eyelids.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, McCree finally managed to say:

"Those men were Talon agents. I sense there's no true need for me to explain what Talon is – not to _you_."

Black shrugged once more; then closed the container and put it back on the table.

"Where can I find them, boy?" he asked again, this time not as calmly as he had asked before.

"Why do you ask?" Jesse tried to hide his concern behind a façade of false mysteriousness.

"Well, since you kicked the idol off the train; I can only assume they got their hands on it." Black began, "And I need it _back_ – I mean, it was very amusing, really, to observe both parts fighting over something that wasn't even theirs for the taking; it even put a smile on my face, boy; to notice both parts were so eager to fight over something without even knowing what that thing is…"

 _Knock, knock._

"What was that thing?" McCree asked, now fully invested.

"I'm the one who asks the questions, boy." Black retorted. "I need to deliver the idol to my boss in 48 hours. I can't go back empty-handed – so tell me where I can find them."

 _Knock, knock._

"Your… boss…" Jesse let out softly, surprised by the unexpected revelation. "I thought a man like you wouldn't have a boss. Who do you work for?" McCree questioned, already fearing the chance of having to confront an entity far more dangerous than Talon.

Black clicked his tongue; the faint sound getting lost behind the barrier of his face-mask. He knew that man would not understand yet the very notion of McCree struggling for understanding was amusing for him.

"The emperor of Outworld."

Noticing the two men were simply too absorbed in their conversation to realize someone was knocking, the doctor walked past them and approached the door – as she gently pushed it open, the tranquilizing dart penetrated the skin of her slender neck. She struggled; even though she knew it would be useless. Those unknown arms wrapped themselves around her shoulders and began to drag her out of the house. Her limbs went numb, her blurry surroundings barely visible.

Only when the unwelcomed cool breeze of the afternoon began to caress their skins, both men turned to look over their shoulders: the door was open, and the doctor was gone.

Jesse stood up and ran towards the entrance of the house looking for Angela, but she was nowhere to be found. Black followed him; his pace calmer, his expression more speculative and calculating than Jesse's emotional concern.

"They got your woman."

McCree went back inside the house and grabbed his peacemaker. Black watched him in silence briefly, before stretching out a muscular forearm to stop the now-determined man from going any farther.

"Where do you think you're going?" He asked.

"To get her back." Jesse answered as he pushed Black aside rather easily. The same odd feeling of having his impervious skin corrupted by the touch of metal invaded the Outworld mercenary.

"You're in over your head, boy. She's already dead."

Jesse smiled disdainfully – it was obvious now that that man didn't know who Angela was. She was too valuable; she was simply irreplaceable – even for Talon. Walking past Black, McCree approached the door once more only to hear that cold baritone voice brushing his ears once again:

"How old are you, boy? Thirty-something?" Black asked as he moved near him; his hand reaching for his prosthetic arm. "Thirty-something, and already lost an arm?"

McCree considered the chance of punching that man in the face with his metallic arm just to show him how different the pain is when your jawline gets beaten by steel instead of skin yet he refrained from doing so; knowing a confrontation with Black would lead them nowhere.

"If you want to know where to find them, you'll have to go with me." He said. "They clearly don't know what that thing is; let alone how to use it or what to use it for – but they think we _do_ know; that's why they took Angela."

"Or… Angela is just a decoy." Black's words rang inside Jesse's ears like an alarm.

"Do they know about you?"

The Outworld cowboy patted Jesse on the shoulder and he motioned towards the door. _Find the woman; find the idol_ he whispered before McCree grabbed him by the shoulder, forcing him to turn around.

"Do they know about you?" He asked again, about to lose control.

"They clearly knew about the schedule – they knew the idol was traveling aboard that hypertrain." He explained simply, "I told my boss it was not a good idea to trust the Special Forces on this one; but the man insisted – he said it would be _unwise_ to cause a fuss over something as simple as a delivery in times of peace between realms."

Losing his temper, McCree cornered Black against the wall – even if those words were placed far beyond the limits of his comprehension he could already see that something big was going on; something bigger than a simple, glowing object getting kicked out of a train.

"Do they know about _you_?"

Black's disdainful smirk illuminated his face; his eyes – livid and poisonous, were finally revealing Erron's true satirical nature.

"Let's go find out, boy."


	3. Boop

Chapter 3

Boop

* * *

The rush of getting out of Angela's house dissipated rather quickly. Both gunmen found themselves staring in opposite directions, unsure about witch path was the one they were supposed to follow in order to find the missing prodigy. After a few minutes spent in deep, silent contemplation, McCree went back inside the house and searched for the keys of Angela's car: he wasn't a devoted driver; never had been, but desperate times… If anything, he was always ready to do anything in his power to avoid positioning himself behind the wheel. Something about his reckless youth would prevent him from doing so, so many memories of his beloved motorbike, the old days riding alongside the Deadlock Gang – and the accidents, the stitches covering his skin – the bruises altering his geography; every cut and every hematoma, displayed inside his memory and talking about the man he had chosen not to be any more. The wheel, in a way, still represented that freedom – that rhetoric sensation of feeling in control; like a wild stallion frantically riding towards a horizon drenched in a renewed sense of liberty; an elusive liberty, way too distant for this convoluted thoughts to comprehend.

"Where to?" Black shook him out of his trance yet Jesse shrugged as he contemplated the small key resting on the palm of his metallic arm. He considered their chances: Talon operatives were cautious; finding them with neither resources nor solid clues was going to be one hell of a task for the two cowboys to perform on their own.

"Let's search for tracks. We may not be able to follow them Hansel and Gretel style but at least they'll point us in the right direction." Jesse said pensively as his avid gaze began to distinguish the different dark-grey marks adorning the pavement. Black obliged in silence, walking towards the street and placing his hands at the sides of his waist.

The two men found themselves walking towards the corner – the empty street had indeed been illustrated with many different marks yet only a few of them were consistent with the obvious signs of acceleration and the need to find a quick getaway.

Black glanced over the curb to acknowledge the particular skid marks indicating that a careless maneuver had recently taken place – presumably performed by a skilled driver longing to disappear from the scene as soon as humanly possible. The marks then became straight lines, headed northwest.

As soon as the Outworld mercenary informed Jesse of his discovery, both men got inside the car yet far from starting the engine, McCree stared at the distance with uncertainty encysted deep inside his eyes. Now they had found a direction to follow, but their chances of finding Angela still seemed very unlikely.

"So?" Black asked, impatient. "Let's get goin', boy."

McCree placed both hands on the wheel but his attention returned to the man now sitting on the passenger seat.

"What is Outworld?"

"Google it."

"You said your boss…" McCree tried to ask yet Black cut him off abruptly.

"He's not exactly my boss; my boss is in jail. I _volunteered_ for this mission – that's why I can't go back empty-handed, kid."

Emperor Rain had taken the political scene of Outworld by surprise, his motivation fueled by the ulterior need of claiming what, according to his side of the story, was his by birthright: power, and unparalleled domination. Yet he didn't kill Kotal; he imprisoned the Osh-Tekk as an attempt to distance himself from what the former emperor had done to Mileena – even if there had been no trial to judge the former ruler, Rain had chosen life over death and the feeling was as unfamiliar to the citizens of Outworld as it was unprecedented.

"I didn't see you on that train." Jesse reflected, trying to resume his train of thought.

"I wasn't wearing kohl or my mask – Special Forces suggested my usual physical appearance could raise suspicions..." Now it was Jesse's turn to interrupt the legendary, bicentennial outlaw to try and get some real answers from the man: Black's vague explanations were not enough for McCree to understand what was really going on – especially now that the SF had been involved.

"Wait – the Special Forces… What do they have to do with any of this nonsense?"

Now that he had embraced the life of a fugitive, the life of an unwanted vigilante, the SF had become the pebble in his shoe; chasing after him constantly and making his life a living hell. It was bad enough to know that Talon was in possession of an unknown, alien artifact; it was bad enough to know they had taken Angela – but learning that the SF were somehow involved in their unexpected mess was simply too much for the former Overwatch agent to handle.

"Ignorant…" Black looked out the window helplessly, as if expecting the car to start moving on its own regardless of Jesse's evident lack of determination. "The idol was in this realm so they put it on the train and allowed me to travel with it – _the hypertrain is safe_ , they said. I was the escort. I was supposed to arrive at the base and use their portal to get back home with the idol. It was more of a political affaire than a trade, really – they needed to actually see me crossing the portal with the damn thing. And since the new emperor of Outworld doesn't want them over there, they couldn't deliver the idol themselves so one of us had to do it. Like I told you, I _volunteered_."

"Why?"

His exposition could have painted a much more detailed picture for McCree. If chosen carefully, the ancient cowboy's words could have explained that he still had to prove his loyalty to the new ruler of Outworld – knowing the struggles of war first hand; Black understood that the peace they had achieved was so fragile that even the slightest wind would suffice to knock it down. The Talon operatives had done their part, stealing the idol and jeopardizing his mission. Now that he had found Jesse, their paths had been met with the reciprocal need to work together: Black needed to recover the idol, McCree wanted his woman back.

"Because I'm one of yours, so I can blend in rather easily." Black said, opting for a lighter version yet a true version nonetheless: none of his fellow enforces could walk among humans without being noticed – Reptile could, in a way, using his ability to disappear completely but Erron needed to fulfill the mission on his own – he needed to prove his brand new employer that he was capable and trustworthy, otherwise he would end up like Kotal himself, rotting away in a filthy cell – and he had had enough of that already. "We're losing time, boy. Your woman must be dead by now." Black finally said, trying to push Jesse towards the action once more.

"They won't kill her. She's invaluable."

The certainty in his words had nothing to do with the complete lack of determination to start the engine and get going. McCree could only speculate about a few places if they were going to go northwest but it still felt odd for them to just drive in that direction, hoping to find Mercy and the idol nearly by chance. His days as an Overwatch agent had taught him that information is always the key for unlocking a successful operation – only now, the darkness revolving all around them was too much of a burden for the younger cowboy to carry.

* * *

Angela opened her eyes slowly as her head welcomed the dizziness and the nausea still waiting for her – the aftereffects of almost every tranquilizing dart. She glanced over her shoulder and quickly scanned her surroundings: far from her thoughts, the place where she was being held was more familiar than she would have guessed.

She checked her wrists but there was no rope, no restrains to keep her tied down to the stretcher – indeed, it _was_ a stretcher, she knew the feeling all too well. There was a filing cabinet to her right and to her left, a wooden desk and a small window allowing a few timid sunrays to dance through the thin green curtains.

They had chosen to keep the doctor in what seemed to be a recently abandoned hospital; the irony was as peculiar as it was bitter.

"Hello, there." A French accent, adorning a female voce startled Mercy from the other side of the desk. It took the doctor a few seconds for her blue eyes to swim into focus and find the source of the voice – the sight confirmed her suspicious: the one welcoming her was none other than Amélie Lacroix, Talon's number one sniper.

Angela sat up on the stretcher, the nausea growing stronger.

"Try to get some rest; I'll let you know once they arrive." Amélie told her with such an amicable tone it felt completely alien for the confused doctor. "Though I wonder what's taking them so long – I thought they would be here sooner." The sniper placed her long legs on the desk and crossed her arms over her chest; looking out the window she whispered: "Stupid child, always doing things her way…"

Mercy rested her head on the pillow yet she refused to close her eyes again – two things were certain: the idol was nowhere to be found, and they were actually waiting for both Jesse and Black to come rescue her.

* * *

"Why?"

"She's a doctor – but she's no ordinary doctor." Was all Jesse could say – he still didn't trust Black so informing him of everything Angela had done during her years working for Overwatch, informing him of everything she was still capable of doing, was completely out of the equation.

"What is it with cowboys and doctors?" Black whispered, his cobalt eyes were still staring out the window yet McCree's pensive expression lighted up, his features softening gracefully now that the bicentennial man had said those words out loud.

"You have your own Mercy?"

Confused, Erron started intently at Jesse, as if unable to understand what the younger cowboy had just said.

"We call her Mercy." McCree explained as a timid grin curled up his lips.

"No. Not anymore." Black confessed as he turned around and tried to focus his attention back on some invisible, distant horizon. "I did have her, though she was not _merciful_ – not with me, that's for sure." He chuckled lightheartedly as he remembered his days with the Earthrealm doctor.

The engine started and Black crossed his arms over his chest, ready to retrieve the missing idol: "About damn time, boy." Yet McCree opened the palm of his metallic hand to show the legendary outlaw that the keys of the car were still resting there, between his cold fingers.

"What the…?"

The GPS system came to life as well, forcing both cowboys to look at the screen in front of them: from black to purple to black again, a map of the city showed them a clear destination – a hospital, placed only twelve minutes away from their current location. At the bottom of the screen, kissing the left corner of the device, a peculiar symbol fixed itself on the image: a hexagon, with two eyes, a little nose and five perpendicular cracks at the bottom, simulating teeth – it was a skull, adorned and made of countless letters and numbers.

McCree covered his face with both hands yet through parted lips, his elocution had already solved the riddle:

" _Hack the planet_."


	4. Hard Luck Woman

Chapter 4

Hard Luck Woman

* * *

"Look at my eyes, Faye. One of them is a fake cause I lost it in an accident. Since then, I've been seeing the past in one eye, and the present in the other, so I thought I could only see patches of reality, never the whole picture. I felt like I was watching a dream I'd never wake up from... Before I knew it, the dream was all over."

Spike Spiegel – Cowboy Bebop, session 26: The real folk blues, part II

* * *

Houston, three years ago.

…

He closed the door to his cheap motel room and quickly kicked off his muddy cowboy boots. The spurs went live as they clicked against the ground; the metallic sounds getting rapidly silenced by the old, dirty rug. Life on the run was supposed to feel that way, after all, and it had been long since Jesse McCree had accepted it for a fact: men like him didn't have a home. Only smelly, smoky rooms were there for them to fill their dead hours with nothing but yet more emptiness. That room – as generic, as impersonal as it was – could have been any other room and it was definitely going to become any other room come daylight.

He threw his hat on the bed and unbuttoned his white shirt – he wasn't feeling particularly tired that evening but even so, the adventure of simply surviving another day would always take its toll on him the minute the sun began to kiss the horizon way beyond the city skyline.

Houston was not the place where he wanted to be; he had tried to avoid it – to avoid _her_ – but the money was good and the cause seemed righteous enough: designer drugs hidden inside books and delivered to teenagers by the seemingly innocent day-by-day life of a librarian.

He really didn't know whether criminals were running out of ideas or if he had seen it all.

The ex-Blackwatch agent placed his peacemaker on the bedside table and quickly let his body crumble down on the cozy purple armchair placed near the closed windows. His metal fingers toyed with the remote as he considered the chance of pouring himself yet another glass of bourbon – he pushed away the thought and instead opted for lighting up a cigar: it was never a good idea to drink himself to oblivion when he had already decided he was going to leave town before dawn.

He shifted his weight on the armchair as he turned on the TV, reclining his back and his left shoulder. The cowboy stretched his legs as the first clouds of dense smoke enveloped his face – the intriguing brown eyes of the vigilante staring vacantly into the screen.

They were presenting a case; it was one of those shows that try to _present reality_ without the formality of the news nor the improvised drama of a talk show, he reckoned. Another one of those public opinion forums specifically designed to manipulate the audience's thoughts on a given subject.

A sardonic smile adorned the cowboy's face as he trapped the cigar between his lips. The man on the TV screen was pacing around the set, frantically moving his hands and gesticulating in a rather exaggerated fashion. He was loud. Way too loud.

 _Just how many more chances are we – the people – going to give this woman? Hasn't she hurt us enough?_

The people listening in the panels behind him seemed invested in whatever story that man was trying to tell. His speech was desperate, nearly pleading.

 _She is dangerous; her technology is dangerous. Her whole concept of 'medicine' is dangerous…_

The man paused, just as a picture of her with a red x on it invaded the TV screen. Then they moved her image to the bottom left corner of the screen and the image returned to that loud man; his demeanor was pensive yet resolute. He put his hands together in front of his chest and looked right at the camera, the eyes of the suburban predator going through the screen, as if talking directly to the perplexed cowboy.

 _I say… No more._

Infuriated, Jesse McCree rose from the armchair and began pacing around the room: the nerve of that man to speak about _her_ in such a cruel manner. Houston… Houston was not the place where he wanted to be. But maybe it was the place where he _needed_ to be.

As minutes went by, McCree understood the case they were presenting: it was about a hospital; some doctors and surgeons had been accused of _mala praxis,_ bad practice. The trial had been brutal: the doctors and the surgeons had lost their licenses and now they were closing down the entire hospital – the fine that the administration was being forced to pay as compensation for damages was way too high; there was no way for them to avoid bankruptcy. Jesse smashed his cigar on the dirty ashtray as he remembered the story: it had been big weeks ago, when the carnage left by the trial was still fresh and bloody. But now the case had begun its downward spiral towards oblivion, soon to disappear from the people's minds.

But a case like that was money; a story like that was powerful enough to dominate the ratings and move the scales of powerful opinions.

When a story like that begins to vanish, Jesse understood, the producers are left with the imperative need of finding different ways to keep it alive. A new face, a fresher opinion, a newly discovered fact… anything for them to hold on to.

The truth, distorted and compromised, had a familiar face now.

As the show went on, Jesse became able to see the whole picture: the main actors and actresses that only days ago had been revolving all around the infamous hospital story were gone from the media now – their faces and voices had already saturated the audience. So now it was time to look for a new face; or maybe a familiar face they could easily camouflage under those dim lights of the TV sets and expose as new. Angela Ziegler's face was the old face they were trying to sell as yesterday's novelty. Refurbished and remolded after what seemed to be ancient history now, they were trying to link the hospital story with Overwatch's darkest days and Mercy, the common element uniting both tales, was the chosen missing link.

What the loud man was not telling his audience was that the link embodied by Angela was a very fragile one, to say the least.

The doctor had never worked at that hospital; she had only attended two medical conventions that had taken place in the hospital's newest wing. That was all there was to the story. Yet the fact that Angela had walked those corridors, the fact that she had possibly drank the coffee the hospital cafeteria had to offer was enough for the man to affirm that the woman was dangerous, that her technology was dangerous; that her whole concept of 'medicine' was dangerous.

 _First, the fall of an organization that was supposed to protect us – she's involved. And now, mala praxis, and guess who's involved? Exactly. This very same woman. How many more chances, people? How many?_

The gunslinger with a price on his head opened up the windows to let the air in. No matter if those dark grey clouds outside were talking about an imminent storm, he leaned on the window frame, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. As the sounds coming from the TV became more and more distant as seconds passed by, McCree pressed his thumbs against his temples; the incoming headache was all the proof he needed to acknowledge the fact that a part of him still resented the effects of that _other_ storm – the one that had destroyed Overwatch from the inside, exposing its members to the most gratuitous of sufferings.

The logic in their speech was as stupid as it was eloquent: Mercy had been a key member of Overwatch back then, her name had been in the spotlight during the organization's darkest hour. Now her name was being attached to yet another dangerous story and her science was right in the middle of it all once again.

As the winds changed, bringing the rain and the hazy thunder to that agonizingly cold June afternoon, Jesse McCree closed the curtains and the blinds. His body, enveloped now in complete darkness, was not dark enough to hide those things he still needed to say.

He left his room and walked back to the motel lobby. Sitting in a corner, all by himself, the ex-Blackwatch agent requested he wanted to use the phone. The manager obliged rapidly, setting the device on the little table right next to McCree's legs with a much needed glass of bourbon.

"On the house." The old man said before leaving Jesse alone with his thoughts. The desperado clicked his tongue and smirked – maybe it was painfully obvious, he pondered bitterly – maybe his conflicted feelings were written all over his face.

With the phone resting on his knees, McCree hesitated whether he should call her or not. A simple glance at the device was enough for the cowboy to understand that phone was nothing but an ordinary landline; they could track the call in just a matter of minutes. Not only he was a wanted man – she had just been placed right in the center of the storm. One thing was to get caught trying to unbury the ghosts of a turbulent past that was clearly still toying with his tired head – the memory of a better time, of a simpler time, life with a purpose, _love_ – or the ruins of something that had once been very close to that feeling – but another thing was to drag her down his own path of mistakes and regrets…

He couldn't do that. He just couldn't _afford_ to do that.

Besides, they hadn't talked in years. And even when the gunslinger knew they could never track the call if the conversation was brief enough, he knew _time_ had never been on his side.

He finished his bourbon and examined the phone one last time before standing up and walking towards the motel front desk. With a tip of his hat he placed the device back on the counter and left a handful of dollars right next to it. He walked back to his room, picked up the few items that were still in his possession and left the place.

He wandered those streets as he marched through the rain. Houston was definitively not the place where he wanted to be. But it was exactly where he needed to be.

* * *

The memories of that day flashed before his eyes the second they got off the car and started to walk towards the main entrance of the hospital. As abandoned as it was, the place hadn't changed that much, and even if he had never been there himself, it was still easy to recognize the shape of the building from the scattered images they had shown of it all over the news way back then.

The fact that they had chosen that particular place for the inevitable fight both cowboys were already anticipating; the fact that they had decided to keep Angela inside that building was bittersweet for McCree: a part of him still longed to believe it had all been but a coincidence; nothing more than an unfortunate turn of events that had been accidentally adorned by that specific location. Yet his better judgement was skeptical; almost instantaneously reckoning the fact that, if it hadn't been a coincidence, like he was most inclined to believe, then the minds of those Talon agents were surely darker and more adept to sarcasm that what he would have dared to imagine.

"It's a trap, boy." Black muttered, shaking Jesse out of his reverie.

"Understatement of the year." McCree spat sarcastically, his back still turned to the Outworld cowboy, his eyes fixed on the monumental door, trying to figure out a way in.

"I mean it, boy. It's a trap." Black insisted, the cold, lifeless tone of his voice forcing Jesse to turn around and face him: Talon's favorite hacker was standing right next to Black; her hands were on his shoulders.

Jesse closed his eyes and took a deep breath;

"All those years and you can't handle a girl?" McCree blurted out, the tone of his voice somewhere in between a reproach and a joke.

As expected, Sombra disappeared before their eyes and reappeared again, seconds later, opening the door from the inside for them to walk right in.

"She kept doin' that…" Black whispered in Jesse's ears as he passed him by.

"Excuses…" Jesse whispered back as he hurried his pace, the spurs of his cowboy boots ringing their way through the door.

"Come on now, cowboys. This way." The hacker beckoned them nonchalantly, almost as if it was just a game for her. She closed the door behind them and the three of them quickly got immersed in the darkness pooling around every corner of that abandoned hospital. It didn't take long for the newcomers to find the missing doctor – _second door to the left_ , Sombra ordered.

Angela was sitting on a stretcher. The Widowmaker had clearly been tasked with babysitting the Swiss doctor but, apart from that, everything looked eerily calm.

"What I still can't believe is how these people managed to take your woman right from under our noses…" Black muttered as he walked past the hacker now seated on the desk. The young woman smiled, then touched the tip of her nose as she said:

"You can't age, I can disappear… Boop." She crossed her legs nonchalantly then she extended one her arms towards the men: "Gentlemen, guns." She commanded simply.

Once both men were completely disarmed, the Widowmaker walked around Black and tied his hands together behind his back. The Outworld cowboy didn't even look at the blue-skinned woman; his eyes already way too busy scanning their surroundings: much to his displeasure, the idol was nowhere to be found. Right before the Widowmaker could make her way towards Jesse, the younger cowboy approached the doctor and placed his hands at the sides of her slender, pale shoulders.

"Are you alright?" He asked, already feeling those cold, blue hands reaching for his wrists and forcing his arms to touch his own back.

"I'm fine, Jesse." Angela said. But even if the look in her eyes was still warm and nurturing, trying to reassure the gunslinger that she was alright, the tone of her voice was stating otherwise.

* * *

"You should really lock those doors…"

Angela looked over her shoulder from the kitchen as the feelings traveled through her body – that shadowy man standing in her living room, his body contrasting the dark, rainy night outside. That unmistakable voice of his was still soothing even after all those years apart. The woman stood up and made her way to the living room where this familiar stranger was standing, right next to the glass doors connecting the inside of her quiet house with her backyard and the stormy night outside.

As thunders roared and lightings traveled through space and time, the shape of his nose, his bearded chin and his cowboy hat became crystal clear in the chiaroscuro.

She tried to turn on the lights, but he stopped her. Standing where he was he had already seen more than enough: their picture still on the bookshelf; Angela's smile and Morrison's strong frame enveloping the woman.

Had it really been that long since…? Since _everything_?

Humming lightly, the doctor placed her arms around the stranger's neck. The usual red poncho was soaking wet, but she didn't care. Like always, the rain had brought him to her when she needed him the most.

"I saw your name on the TV; they were talking about…" He began, whispering in her ear.

" _I'm fine, Jesse." Angela said. But even if the look in her eyes was still warm and nurturing, trying to reassure the gunslinger that she was alright, the tone of her voice was stating otherwise._ Two metallic fingers raised her chin in the night, their eyes leveling.

But the woman looked away.

"I don't need a hero, Jesse." She said as she broke the embrace. She walked past him, her blue eyes focused on the rainy night outside. "You could have been a hero. But you left."

The gunslinger shook his head in silence: he had hesitated for a reason. Not only they hadn't seen each other since Morrison's funeral, but the pain he had felt earlier that afternoon – that blinding pain taking over his chest, was still talking about a past that was still gravitating over him, as if unable to let him go.

Or maybe he was the only one unable to let go.

He walked up to her and stood right behind her. His eyes, just like hers, finding an anchor in the silver streams of light interrupting the cold night.

"Just come with me, Angela. Let's leave it all behind, let's go somewhere – _anywhere_ – where it's just _us_."

"You know I can't do that, Jesse."

Déjà vu.

The last time he had asked her the same thing she had replied in that exact, same way. The last time he had asked her to leave with him, he had left alone – he had left _her_ alone. The war between Blackwatch and Overwatch was tearing them all apart yet the gunslinger knew there were people that still needed her – he understood she would _always_ be needed.

Alone, and brokenhearted, the good doctor had found comfort in Morrison's arms right after Jesse's departure. In a way, it all made sense to the troubled gunslinger: Morrison was older, stronger, wiser…

Morrison was a soldier; _the_ soldier – and he was nothing but a reformed rascal that was always going to be nothing but a reformed rascal.

From afar, McCree appreciated Morrison's support: Overwatch was the world to Angela and now her world was crumbling down all around her. His strong embrace felt like a fortress for the young woman to cry. But they should have seen it coming: the internal war destroying the organization was merciless and, in time, they would all suffer from its consequences, Angela was not meant to be the exception.

In the end, the time they had was brief: Morrison disappeared way before Jesse could have even adjusted his head to the idea that his woman was now Jack's. A part of him was still mad at the former Strike-Commander: the man got himself killed so easily, he had left her too, he didn't stop to think about her.

Jesse turned and tossed a million times in countless beds as that thought ignited his mind over and over again but he would only wake to the very same bitter conclusion every time: no matter if he was thinking about her now, he hadn't thought about her when it really mattered.

He was no different than Morrison. Both of them had left her all alone.

She turned around and placed her hands on his chest. There he saw it for the first time in years: she was crying.

"I can't go with you, Jesse. What would I do, all day, just waiting for you to come back home alive, wondering if they got you, if you're alright…" A broken smile embellished her pale features, "I've already done that, the uncertainty is just not good, Jesse. And if we were to live on the run, with no equipment, no resources…" Angela caressed his metallic arm, then she looked down. "Without my lab, without my technology I'm just another doctor, Jesse. And _just another doctor_ is not good enough to keep you alive."

He kissed her, then.

Yet he understood what she meant.

There really was no future for them.

He left right after dawn with a promise: he would come back and visit her each month, just to let her know that he was still alive, that she was still _missed_. And just like Penelope, she waited. He kept his promise but they never got back together - not in the way that he wanted, anyway. Morrison's picture disappeared from the bookshelf as seasons rolled by; another month was another visit, another empty conversation, another fight, another reconciliatory smile from her.

They had learned to walk on a broken bridge.

And that was more than enough.


	5. Badblood

Chapter 5.

 **Badblood.**

* * *

"It's time," The hacker said as she walked towards the doctor. With both hands placed at the sides of Angela's waist, Sombra forced the woman to stand up once again, and finally leave the stretcher where she had been waiting for both Black and McCree to arrive. The French sniper hastily mirrored the younger woman's movements, grabbing Black by his jacket and ushering the man towards the door.

"Where are you takin' them?" McCree yelled helplessly as he watched both Black and Angela being dragged out of the room. There was a slight smile adorning the Widowmaker's face, a certain poise taking over her cadence as she gently turned around and waved goodbye.

Unable to move their arms freely, and completely unarmed, the Outworld cowboy and Overwatch's favorite doctor soon found themselves being escorted to yet another room in the facility. Mercy looked over her shoulder, visibly worried about the friend they had just left behind, but Sombra grabbed her firmly by her ponytail and shook her head disapprovingly at her.

"I'm not a child anymore," Angela protested, "Tell me where we're going – tell me what's going to happen to Jesse."

"You worry too much," Sombra retorted nonchalantly, as she shrugged.

The last door was not closed – a timid stream of white light was finding its way out and quickly reaching the final portion of the corridor. Angela remembered, from her last visit to the hospital: that room was no ordinary room – it was the operating room.

A faint, pinkish luminescence wrapped them up completely as soon as they entered the place. The unique hues emanating from the mysterious device that Jesse had managed to kick out of the moving Hypertrain were hard to ignore, matched by a peculiar warmness that only grew stronger and stronger as seconds passed by.

Eyes wide, Black moved towards the glowing object only to be held in place by the French sniper. He turned around and found her eyes caught in the pinkish light; her cold hands on his shoulders suddenly didn't feel so cold anymore.

She shook her head vehemently and removed her fingers from him. Then she took a step backwards, as if afraid of the warmth surrounding her otherwise imperviously cold skin.

As if warmth and emotions were connected, somehow, inside the sticky web of things she had been forced to abandon.

"Why is it emanating heat?" The doctor asked, stunned by the Widowmaker's unexpected reaction.

"Because it's unstable." Black replied quickly, his stubborn arms still struggling for freedom. "We need to take it back."

The shadow moved towards the object, enveloping its ethereal shape in a dark blanket of insurgence. Only then, both the doctor and the legendary outlaw were finally able to catch a glimpse of the face behind the mask – for Angela, it was the sadly familiar face of a certain somebody that didn't exist anymore. The woman looked over her shoulder, trying to guess Black's possible reaction and maybe trying to anticipate the tremor that was surely about to overcome the man. Yet Black didn't even flinch.

The mask gave way to the face – or what was left of it, in the perpetual motion of flesh and bone spiraling dangerously in between life and death itself. Such torment; such sight, she knew, would have been enough to obliterate the little determination left inside her soul yet Black seemed determined.

His strong will was truly admirable, she pondered. He was facing a parenthesis where neither death nor life could fully exist and still, against all odds, the old Texan cowboy didn't seem affected by it.

Not in the slightest.

Black's eyes found the struggling doctor and he nodded in her direction. The simple gesture was only meant to provide the woman with a little tranquility yet the gunman knew there was no way for the woman to stay calm.

He could have told her that the impeccably despicable collection of beings surrounding them now wasn't that different from the collection of people still waiting for him back in Outworld: Reptile could disappear, just like Sombra. The fluctuating vessel meant to resemble whatever was left of that man was not that different from Ermac. Come to think of it, the collective of souls had taught him a thing or two about decaying cells. Not even the French woman could surprise him with her blue skin – his former employer's body was an ode to the color.

He could have told her – only he didn't. Revealing such things was suicide; it was the very affirmation that there was, indeed, another realm for those people to discover.

Outworld didn't need Talon to corrupt its already corrupted nature.

Outworld was already enough for Outworld to handle.

Noticing Amelie's increasing reticence to move closer to the glowing object, Sombra took her place by guiding Black towards their leader with a slight push on the man's broad shoulders. The mercenary tried his best not to move but the movement was so swift and precise he soon found himself nearly bumping into the tenebrous figure hovering lightly before his eyes. One shaky finger broke the distance and graced his jawline with the tip of what felt like a sharp claw, its viciousness finding his chin, and guiding it upwards for their eyes to finally connect.

" _Legend…_ " The creature breathed as its fingers began to dig at the mercenary's cheeks. "About time we finally meet."

The doctor felt her insides churn in complete repulsion once the voice traveled the distance and ricocheted inside her brain. Desperate eyes began deconstructing that ever-changing face, summoning the echoes of her torturous yesteryears.

"Gabriel…" The Swiss doctor let out involuntarily. The obscure laughter produced by the anima confirmed her every suspicion: Reyes was now a monster.

A monster that she herself had manufactured.

"Gabriel, what do you want?" Mercy implored as she broke free from the Widowmaker's tight grasp yet, with her hands still tied up behind her back, the only thing she was able to do was to get closer to the familiar ghost, but no more than that. Only then, the shadows became thicker; the warmth emanating from the alien artifact seemed to disappear and the room looked as though it had just stretched itself towards innumerable, unreachable dimensions. But she knew none of those things could be real: shadows were not thicker, the room hadn't gone anywhere and the artifact's latent incandescence was still warm.

With eyes about to rain the woman looked away, unable to watch the man she had once admired getting consumed by a darkness so profound it could only drag her down along with him.

As the imperturbable claw sank deeper into Black's cheek, the first drop of ancient blood began to stream down the mercenary's face. Crimson and seemingly thicker than expected, perhaps darker than the usual sight of blood she was so used to seeing by now after so many years of experience in the field, the woman observed as the creature ran its palm across Black's face.

His hand hovered between her eyes and the cowboy's – just as if he cruelly wanted her to take a closer look at the viscous substance staining him; as if subtly telling Black that his own blood wasn't just his anymore.

"It hurts, Angela…"

Macabre yet soft, Gabriel's voice seemed to summon a prayer from the darkest, most recondite places of his tormented soul.

"Gabriel, I…"

She was genuinely sorry for him. Her voice showed, her whole body was aching for a solution that wouldn't come. What she had done to him was beyond the limits of her own imagination; what she had done to him was simply irreversible.

Was she had done was…

Unforgivable.

As the Reaper of innocent souls retreated farther into the operating room, the hacker grabbed the doctor by her forearm and cut the rope that had been restraining her movements. Black observed the scene, anticipating his own freedom, but even when the French woman's heels disrupted the eerie silence engulfing them completely, _freedom_ was the last thing she had in store for him.

A small device, shaped just as a spider, flashed before his stupefied eyes. The sound of glass breaking should have warned him of the imminent danger about to possess him entirely – but the last thing he saw was the intriguing, blue-skinned beauty standing right before him. She showed him the broken spider resting in her hands; the uneven fragments exposing a red liquid filling up both parts of the broken container.

The woman discarded one of the fragments, throwing it casually to the floor.

The second fragment traveled to her mouth and rested on her lips – she drank from it; the exquisite sight of her twisted kind of pleasure devouring him entirely. Shattered glass pricked at her lips but she didn't seem to care – if anything, she seemed genuinely fueled by it. Her free hand sneaked around his neck; freezing fingers eliciting a hurricane of unseen winds to travel down his back and die at his feet.

She kissed him passionately then; her poison covering his mouth, coating his gums and reaching for his throat.

The last thing that crossed his blurry mind was the warmth of her mouth. Wilder than the wind, the ice lady with the silken lips had spread the ashes of her own convoluted bonfire like black magic ager to see him melt in such unprecedented flames.

The sniper tilted her head back slightly, taking in the view of an Erron Black about to succumb to her. The curve of a smile got lost in the hazy lines of his subjugated vision; his legs went numb and the whole world ceased to exist.

She held him in her arms as he crumbled down to the ground, rocking his body tenderly and contemplating him just as if he had just fallen asleep.

 _Jesse…_

With Black out of the equation, it was more than clear that the only thing Reyes was looking for was revenge. The mercenary had been nothing but an unnecessary participant in their conflict – if only he hadn't been there; if only Jesse hadn't kicked that damn thing out of the Hypertrain.

It was painfully obvious: she was responsible for his current condition and McCree had turned his back on him when Gabriel needed him the most. Now they were on their own, Black's inevitable demise was yet another item for them to add to their never-ending list of completely avoidable sins, and they were apart. The storm in her eyes was not enough to cloud those obscure visions hanging over her: if getting rid of someone like Erron Black had been that easy for them, she wouldn't last much longer and Jesse…

 _Jesse…_

As the Widowmaker and Sombra took Black's body and laid him on the operating table, Gabriel placed his arms around the defeated doctor and helped her up, guiding her towards the fallen gunman.

"He's not dead," That softness in his voice again, threatening her sanity and disarming her completely, made her see how desperate she truly was to help him but it was absolutely pointless: that creature was not Gabriel – Gabriel was lost in the nebula of things and people she could never recover. That creature knew no good; that creature wasn't looking for redemption. "Amelie was really gentle with him – he'll be out for some hours. But he's not going to die."

With a slight movement of his hand, the Reaper ordered the female Talon operatives to leave the room – to leave him _alone_ with her.

"It hurts, Angela…" He began, voice gravitating menacingly in between melancholy and what seemed to be anguish. "I want you to stop the pain," Horrified, she stared into his eyes only to witness his face contort in agonizing suffering; old and rotten flesh getting quickly replaced by brand new tissue in a perpetual cycle of terror, "I want you to give me what he has."

She could have sworn that even for the briefest of moments, those animalistic eyes of his had held back tears.

"I heard the stories myself, a long time ago: the cowboy that can't age…" Trepidation began to paralyze her as the man went on – "Even Jesse told me he once met this so-called _legend_ when he was but a little boy."

 _Jesse…_

"I told him those were stories meant to frighten people… but when you turned me into _this_ you gave me no choice but to hold on to whatever could give me hope," His tone darker, the shadows pooling around his ankles began to circle around her, "So I searched, and waited – and searched; and waited."

The darkness traveled farther up her legs and enveloped her waist as the creature grabbed her by the chin and forced her near him, where broken lips were being met by the brimstone that defines the maddening tongues of hell,

"Examine him," Reaper commanded somberly, "Exsanguinate him if necessary, take everything up to the last drop of blood in his body."

The woman shook herself free from his vicious grip then moved away from him instinctively,

"There's nothing I can do, I have nothing to do with this man," She yelled, desperation taking over her, "I don't know what that damn artifact is supposed to be, but I don't think it has anything to do with him,"

Reaper laughed, the echoes of his million nightmares fragmenting her very core.

"The artifact was just the decoy; Talon will take care of it." He grabbed her by her nearest wrist and pulled her closer to the operating table.

"You know he's not immortal, right?" She tried to make him understand, "You know that…"

"I know he heals faster than I do," The creature interrupted her; "I know he's been alive for over two hundred years and he still looks like a thirty-something… and I know _he's not in pain_." He held her by the neck and violently guided her face towards Black's: it was true, after all, that the mercenary's body was able to regenerate itself faster than humanly possible, better than humanly possible.

That was the only explanation for his longevity after all: his body was constantly healing itself. That's why Widowmaker's poison could not kill him – his body was able to recover quicker than the poison was able to damage it.

Unlike Gabriel's body, Black's body was an ode to youthfulness. Unlike Gabriel, Black was evergreen. She could see why Blackwatch's former leader was so interested in harvesting such magic for himself – yet that didn't mean she wanted to help him; and that definitely didn't mean that she _knew_ how to do what he wanted her to do.

There was no room for magic potions in medicine books.

"I can't." She sobbed, her hands holding on to the metallic bars displayed at the sides of the operating table.

"I thought so."

The man patted her shoulder gently, yet her relief was short-lived.

Reaper abandoned the room, locking the doctor inside, only to return a few minutes later.

"You got twenty-four hours." He announced darkly, as he handed her a large wooden box, "Good luck."

When she opened the box, her eyes were met by the gruesome image of Jesse's metallic arm, covered in his own blood.


	6. Obscurum per Obscurius

**Chapter 6: Obscurum per Obscurius**

The doctor inspected Jesse's prosthetic arm with unparalleled fear: the metallic joint had been torn apart from the rest of the arm, stretching nerves and cutting through muscle in the process. In a way, the cowboy must have felt as if his arm was being severed from his body all over again, she thought. The insufferable pain he must have been in was a dark ghost she was trying hard not to revisit, yet in her mind's eye she could still remember the fatidic evening when Reyes himself had brought him back from a failed mission, his arm was barely hanging from the rest of his body; just like a thin, delicate thread that still refused to let go. She could still see herself, struggling to make the obvious decision and thinking about the future – thinking about him.

Now that very same man – the one who had shed tears for the young and reckless cowboy back then – had been the one behind the cruelty of making Jesse an incomplete man again. The same man who had seen him with paternal eyes. The same man who had rescued and reformed him…

Mercy glanced over her shoulder and contemplated the collection of items that Reyes himself had left for her to examine Black: much to her surprise, the only elements that could be used in an operating room were just a syringe and a scalpel, the rest of the grotesque items clearly belonged in a butchery or perhaps, in the sort of dark redoubts in where Talon would act.

She leaned over the poisoned cowboy and extracted a sample of his blood – even when there was nothing she could do to analyze the real element providing Black with everlasting youth, at least the sample could work as a charade or maybe even a diversion in order to buy them some time, should they need it.

As she grabbed one of the white lab coats from the hanger on the wall and tried it on, the woman decided to keep the sample guarded closely in one of its pockets – she was well aware that this so-called diversion had the potential to become increasingly problematic in case Reyes or any other Talon agent should get their hands on it. Even when the magical element linking Black to a perpetual state of evergreen youth was alien even to her own science, the woman was positive that the last thing the world was in need of was a never-aging Widowmaker or perhaps…

The noise made her turn around.

Electric. Buzzing, like a struggling spark.

For a second, the doctor could have sworn there were hazy purple streams of light surrounding the mysterious device. They would disappear rather abruptly, only to appear again, undeterred, as if trying to reach the idol and unlock the many secrets resting inside its peculiar shape.

Then the noise would strike her ears again; definitive and louder than before.

Each time the device would rebel against this mysterious force trying to reach its seemingly impenetrable core, the air surrounding it would grow warmer; intensifying the temperature in the already heated room. Mercy could feel her legs becoming increasingly numb as countless drops of sweat began cascading down her temples and neck. The doctor, against her better judgement, tried to shake Black out of his state of unconsciousness but to no avail – the cowboy mercenary was still busy, traveling the lands of artificial slumber.

As her vision went black, Overwatch's former doctor held on to Jesse's arm as if holding on for dear life. Anticipating the imminent shutdown about to subjugate her senses, the scorching sensation inside her nostrils gave way to the complete dryness assaulting her throat.

She coughed, desperately, before her body gave up completely, her legs curled up against her stomach – yet that sound, reverberating now in the unreachable distance between her fallen shape and the idol, was subtly forcing the doctor to at least try to hold on to the little sense of reality pulsating vividly inside her brain.

 _Ouch._

As the doctor descended to the scorching pits of hell, the glowing object in the room seemed relentless in the crucial task of fighting its invader. Sparks of radiant purple and streams of pink luminescence were creating a colorful nebula of lighting and mist; a protective, hazy shroud of heat and electricity making the air grow hotter with each passing second.

Nearly bathed in his own sweat, Black turned and tossed in his sleep as the vibrant showdown of heat and light hit his eyes with the rage of a storm. As he sat down, his senses slowly returning, the man saw the unconscious doctor suffocating herself to oblivion on the ground. Her hands were still holding on to Jesse's prosthetic arm. Shaking himself out of the venomous trance that the heartless French sniper had procured for him, the Outworld cowboy jumped off the operating table and reached for the window – he broke the glass with a furious fist then his cobalt eyes darted around the room only to notice the continuous ballet of pink versus purple.

Breathing through his mouth, Black motioned towards the idol, mesmerized by the petite storm and the festival of multicolored sparks.

 _Ouch._

"Whatever it is that you're doing, I suggest you stop now." He ordered.

Perpendicular purple lines tried to reach for the idol but a sudden burst of electricity made them all disappear completely. Burnt fingers became visible then, revealing the source of the subtle attacks.

Undeterred, Sombra tried to hack the idol once more but Black grabbed her by her wrists, and pushed her away. As the hacker gazed helplessly at her own charred fingertips, a concern Erron Black motioned towards the still unconscious doctor and carried her dormant body near the broken window –

"It's alive." Sombra whispered, mustering her courage in order to hide the pain she was in.

"It's _sentient_ – there's a difference." The cowboy spat disdainfully. "And it was already unstable before you started to toy with it. Whatever it is you were trying to do, it only made things worse."

As if hypnotized by the colorful storm revolving around the idol, the hacker positioned herself in front of the whimsical lights and closed her eyes. Focusing her skills as if channeling her knowledge into a single conduit of data, her hands traveled the distance separating her from the raging idol.

"It's fighting back." She said.

"Don't…"

"Everything can be hacked." She cried out in pain as her hands hovered over the storm, fruitlessly trying to hack the alien device.

A single burst of white light enraptured the room, causing every single light bulb in the facility to explode. Sombra cursed under her breath the second she felt the sudden jolt of electricity running wildly through her already damaged hands but her digits were relentless in their effort, beyond all pain. Her dilated pupils could see the cracks in the walls, quickly traveling down from the ceiling and creating intricate patterns of chaos and destruction all around her but she couldn't stop – it felt near, almost within her reach, the last door separating her from whatever was hiding inside that peculiar object.

As her vision went completely white, consumed by the light emanating from the idol, a final shock of electricity pierced through her hands, bringing her to her knees.

She didn't feel Amelie's arms wrapping up her shoulders in a desperate attempt to help her stand up again.

Didn't hear Black's screams trying to wake up Mercy.

Didn't see the walls finally caving in.

With the little strength still left inside her body, the hacker opted for invisibility.

Gone from the scene; away from the judgment of their eyes, she simply vanished before them.

The French sniper looked over her shoulder and found Mercy, with her head still resting on Black's lap and her eyes closed. Enraged, Amelie slapped her hard across the face, causing the doctor to wake up just in time for the woman to hear Jesse's desperate screams coming from the other room. Shaken, Mercy got up and ran to the door but Amelie held her in place.

"Let me go," Mercy ordered yet the sniper shook her head silently and placed her back against the door. "I need to see him," she tried pleading, even when she knew the woman standing right in front of her had been deprived of all human emotion.

"It's good to see you're alright," Amelie let out softly as her eyes found Black, then she looked back at Angela: "Do you have what he wants?"

"I need more time."

The sniper laughed sarcastically,

"The whole building is colliding." She whispered carelessly, "You should have made a better use of your time."

Enraged, the doctor grabbed her by the shoulders and tried to push her away from the door but the Widowmaker crossed her arms over her chest, "I hate it when he turns everything into a personal matter – but he's certainly not going to be happy about it, Angela."

Jesse's screams were growing louder in the night. The sounds of his pain were slowly clouding Mercy's judgement.

"He needs help," the doctor said, "Let me see him – then you can have what you want."

Amelie tilted her head back and finally opened the door – but instead of letting Mercy out, she simply exited the colliding room, leaving Black and the doctor alone.

"We need to get out of here – I need to take this back to Outworld before it blows us all to pieces." The cowboy mercenary yelled as he motioned towards the raging idol. "It's draining energy – from things, from people… it won't stop until it becomes the only source of energy." He explained. "Whatever it is that the Latin woman was trying to do, it really fucked things up."

"I don't understand…"

"It senses the danger – and that woman became a threat, so the idol fought her." Black concluded, "Now we all share her same energy patterns in terms of species, so we have all become a threat. I need to take the idol back to Outworld before it starts fighting us too."

"I think it's already fighting us," Mercy voiced her thoughts, noticing the cracks in the walls and the insufferable heat still suffocating them but her words were quickly silenced by the figures appearing by the door: a nearly disfigured Jesse McCree, with a pair of scissors buried in the exact spot where his prosthetic arm should have been, was being dragged into the room by the Reaper himself. The villain's cadence, slow and deliberatively menacing, was in perfect concordance with the unfeeling expression of his mask.

With a brutal kick at the pit of his stomach, Reaper threw Jesse's defenseless body at Mercy's feet, causing the doctor to kneel down in front of the severed cowboy, her eyes already filled with tears.

Even Black himself had to look away, regretting their innocence: they had been wrong all along; Mercy had never been Reaper's guarantee in order to make them cooperate – it had always been Jesse.

"What a disappointment." Reaper whispered as he moved amongst his hostages, his lifeless eyes never leaving Mercy. "This was your chance for _redemption_ , Angela – your _only_ chance. And you failed miserably."

As the doctor removed the scissors from Jesse's damaged arm and busied herself performing a quick tourniquet in order to stop the bleeding, Black began to sense the tremor underneath his boots – the ground shook with renewed tension; the cracks in the walls moving farther down now, unmistakably headed for the floor. The idol was draining energy, and Reyes' perpetual cycle of life and death was a hurricane of energy feeding its hungry core.

"We need to leave now," The Outworld cowboy yelled, already anticipating the inevitable: the entire facility was going down and they all were about to become dust.

"Get her out of here," Jesse breathed out through parted lips.

When Black leaned in to place his hands on the doctor's shoulders, the Reaper stood before him and grabbed him by his neck. Vicious, animalistic claws were piercing through his skin as the ancient cowboy struggled to breathe, his feet floating and kicking the air separating his body from his captor's. Taking advantage of the situation, the doctor grabbed the scissors that had tortured Jesse and stood up quickly, burying them inside one of the Reaper's eyes – the villain struggled briefly before removing the element from his face; his broken mask unable to cover his face any more. With unparalleled terror, Black watched the Reaper's completely destroyed eyeball tainting his whole face red; then the pressure assaulting his throat subsided, finally allowing his feet to touch the ground again.

As entire sections of the ceiling began to collapse, Black grabbed the idol and pushed the doctor away from the bleeding monster now laughing manically at them. Mercy leaned in and helped Jesse up, yet both Black and the doctor knew his damaged body was only going to slow them down.

Time wasn't on their side, the entire building was about to be destroyed.

The ancient mercenary opened the door and helped Mercy out as she struggled to carry Jesse's weakened body to the nearest exit. Yet that sinister laugh was echoing through every corridor and every room, chasing after them unceasingly. None of them dared to look back – their eyes only focused forward, as their legs kept on running for the door.

The sound of walls caving in at their backs was reason enough for them to understand that the Reaper was still near; as if able to acknowledge the fact that his presence alone was enough for the idol to become more and more unstable. Only then they stopped and looked over their shoulders; just in time to watch the ceiling fall down and the corridor becoming a hurricane of dense smoke and white dust.

Yet a cloud of black shadows took over the scene; Reaper's wraith form had saved him from a certain death. The laugh persisted, reverberating through the debris and the rubble. Then the shadows moved away from them and disappeared completely.

When their jaded legs tried to run again, the French snipper's mesmerized figure kept them in place. Her eyes were focused solely on the glowing object before her. The heat leaving the device was enough for the woman to reach out her hands but Jesse stopped her, urging her to leave the building with them.

Yet she couldn't move; as if the warm aura was calling her on.

As if that sentient being was trying to summon the one she had been before.

Brokenhearted, both Mercy and McCree felt sorry for the fallen sniper as they remembered the kind and innocent woman she had been way before Talon. They watched her struggle in silence, as if trying to break free from Talon's contamination but helplessly failing every time.

Letting go of Angela's arms, Jesse moved near Amelie and whispered:

"You go with him, Angel. Get this thing back where it belongs. I'll help her."

The doctor refused; she yelled she would never leave him behind, but Black grabbed her firmly by the hand and forced her to leave the building. They quickly got on Angela's car and the woman drove off, headed for the Special Forces headquarters.

Tears were clouding her eyes but she knew the idol was their priority. It needed to be taken back to Outworld, and Black was the only one who could do that.

Now that the idol was gone, the nearly mystical heat that had threatened her sanity was slowly leaving her. The cold blooded sniper saw Jesse trying to reach out for her; his body was nearly broken yet his determination was truly remarkable.

The last section of the hospital was still standing, but its fate had already been sealed: it was bound to become history and they both seemed doomed to become ashes. The cowboy grabbed her by one of her shoulders and brought her back to reality, a decision he would soon regret.

She was a Talon operative.

He was the enemy.

Taking advantage of his weakened state, Amelie smashed his head against the door and watched as his body collapsed against the ground. A short-lived grin lighted up her blue visage as the cold returned to her touch. The walls were crumbling down all around them; it would only be a matter of time now before the entire building was down. So she walked towards the door, and exited the facility – leaving Jesse behind.

Inside the hospital, McCree struggled not to give in to the darkness pooling around every corner. That treacherous woman was not the woman he remembered. Amelie was no more. Amelie was not coming back. He got on his knees and pushed the door opened, his body falling forwards – the sniper turned around and watched him, as he fought his own war; a broken man with an intact spirit still holding on to life.

Cursing herself under her breath, the French sniper walked back to the door and helped him out just as the rest of the facility collapsed. Shielding his body from the incoming cloud of dust coming their way, the cold-hearted woman wrapped him up in her arms, oblivious of all pain as shards of glass cut through her skin. Once the hurricane was over, she dragged him by his feet and turned him around, wiping the clumsy rivers of blood running down his cheeks and forehead with her hands.

Then she sat down in front of him, defeated by the storm of ancient memories raining mercilessly before her stupefied eyes.

She saw herself – or the one that she was, with this reckless, careless cowboy and her husband; saw the faces of those who were never coming back. She covered her face with her hands as she fought back the tears.

She wasn't supposed to cry.

"I never much liked you…" she heard him say, as his hand directed the cold tip of her own sniper rifle against her forehead.

Her eyes were pleading him to end her. To erase her from the surface a world that had nothing left to offer. Trapped between the corruption of a dark organization and the warm memories of the one she was no more, there was no way for the woman to go on living her life – or what was left of it.

"But you're in luck," Jesse went on, as he removed the weapon, letting it land loudly on the ground, "Many years ago I met this very wise man who told me to forgive my enemies every once in a while. He said it messes up their heads."

As the cowboy closed his eyes again, the woman grinned softly at his words. Then she got up, carrying him with her, and took him back to Angela's place. Leaving a simple note that read: "You need to find another place to live" Amelie planted a soft kiss on Jesse's forehead and walked away.

It wasn't long before Mercy found him, waiting for her on her doorstep – one way or another; he would always find his way back home.


	7. Epilogue

**Chapter 7: Epilogue.**

"Can you just go back to bed?" Mercy yelled at Jesse the second she saw him pacing around her living room. "God, you're such a lousy patient."

"You saw him cross the portal?"

The woman sighed and crossed her arms over her chest,

"No, I just took him to the SF headquarters. Then I went back to the hospital to get you but you were gone."

"So we don't really know if he's gone or not."

Almost at the verge of giving up, the doctor leaned against the wall and cocked her head: they had been sharing the same conversation for the last ten days; it was growing old.

"I think he's gone."

"But we don't know…" He fought back, "He could still be here."

"Jesse…"

It was exasperating. He had been tortured, nearly gotten himself killed, yet Black was the only thought inside his head.

"Do you think we'll ever see him again?"

"I sincerely hope…" she began, but stopped abruptly the second she saw his body landing gracefully on the couch, his hands already reaching for the remote.

"Jesse, go back to bed." She ordered harshly, getting tired of his child-like behavior.

"It's boring in bed, there's no TV in your bedroom – you need a TV in your bedroom,"

"What I need – according to the message left by your new _friend_ – is a new house." She couldn't help the sarcasm suddenly invading her words as she remembered Amelie's red lipstick on Jesse's forehead.

"She's not that bad; maybe she's not lost – maybe we can get her back." Jesse said as he looked over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Yes, I was actually thinking about sending her a Christmas card this year."

As she retreated to the kitchen where she picked a mug from one of the cabinets and filled it with freshly made coffee, she could hear his tender laughter reaching out for her in the distance. She placed her elbows on the counter and stared at him, with his legs stretched out on top of the petite coffee table in the center of her living room; the untouched pack of smokes still resting a few inches away from his right foot.

It was nice having him back – even if this time she had only gotten crumbs of him.

"Your injury is healing up rather nicely, Jesse," she commented, her tone becoming more and more amicable as minutes went by. "I'm guessing – if things progress as expected, you'll be having surgery next week."

He nodded in silence; the trademark for an original Jesse McCree whenever things were getting too serious for his liking. Eyes fixed on the TV screen, his voice soared through the house:

"Where did you go last night, Angela? I still can't understand why we can't share the same bed – but even so, when I went downstairs last night to see if you were comfortable on the couch, I noticed you were gone." He began, his tone colder than before, even if not yet reproachful. "It was late, Angel…"

The doctor wrapped herself in silence.

"Tell me you weren't looking for _him_." He pleaded, "For any of them."

The only sound that reached his ears was the delicate marching of her ballerinas as the woman abandoned the kitchen and made her way back to the living room. She sat down right next to him – smoky mug in one hand, a half-smile already asking for forgiveness.

"I went back to the hospital." She admitted, "But I wasn't looking for them – I was looking for your arm. I wanted it back, Jesse. We left so many parts of us behind already; I felt like I couldn't afford to miss another piece of you."

Touched by her words, Jesse cupped her free hand in his. Even then she wasn't able to see him for the man that he was: he was just a collective of pieces in her eyes; a broken puzzle – an incomplete man.

"Did you find it?"

She shook her head.

"Well, it was ruined anyways."

He shook himself out of the emotion.

Like he always did.

"I'm positive you'll find a replacement before the surgery." He came back quickly, desperate not to succumb to the sadness embedded deep inside her eyes.

"There's no need to," Mercy confessed, "When we finally came up with the final design for your arm, I ordered Torb to make more than one; just in case. When I left Overwatch, I took them all with me. So now I have several replacements should you need them – five, to be exact."

Jesse cocked his head and offered her his most sarcastic expression: "Thank you for having so much faith in me, Angela. I'm touched."

He turned off the TV and stood up.

" _You're making a chicken out of a feather_ , Jesse!" The good doctor tried to laugh at Torbjörn's old words, yet the cowboy simply shook his head and made his way upstairs. She followed him close behind – God, she hated their fights.

When he sat down on the bed, she sat down right next to him. Then it dawned on him, the same old truth that he had known all along: Torbjörn's words, just like Morrison's picture or the five prosthetic arms she had saved just for him were the souvenirs of a past that she had forsaken long ago – and still the woman wasn't brave enough to completely let go from all those golden memories. He looked down, acknowledging himself as the only bridge left to connect her with that past – it was such a heavy burden for him to carry all on his own, he realized.

"It's not like we can't share the same bed," She sounded broken, nearly damaged by his reaction. "But it's _this distance_ , Jesse… I don't know how it got so comfortable here, but it did. And I'm sorry."

He couldn't blame her.

He had left. And Morrison had tried his best to comfort her – then he had gotten himself killed.

They had secluded her.

They had _become_ the distance.

"I know," He whispered. "Besides, we wouldn't want to upset Genji."

It was weird for her – to hear that name exiting Jesse's mouth with no traces of remorse or bitterness. Both men had found a reason to finally fight the good fight during their stay in Blackwatch – but time and distance had been crucial factors in their history. Now Angela was the only line connecting the dots of their past – and Reyes' cruelty, forever embedded inside the Reaper's dark shadows, as if trying to summon them back into the black whirlpool of vengeance that had consumed them back then.

She gave him a puzzled look. It wasn't that she didn't want to share the news with him – it was the name she knew she would have to say sooner or later.

They had been close friends, after all.

"It's a small world, Angel."

She covered him with a warm blanket. Her mouth was now the prison for all the things she couldn't say to him. She planted a soft kiss on his forehead before exiting her bedroom – a half smile adorning her pale face.

"No more secrets," Jesse whispered.

"No more secrets," She whispered back.

She went upstairs, to the attic.

Past the bookshelf, past the large wooden table – she kneeled before the very last cabinet. The one with the white tag that still read: _keeping Jesse alive_.

She picked one of the prosthetic arms she had reserved for him just in case; the one she would be using during the surgery.

Then she locked the cabinet again, finally secluding the rest of the identical pieces she had designed for him -and Black's blood sample- in the darkness of the attic.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed this story.


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